Page 42 of The Match Faker

I don’t really know how to connect with grandmas. Mine’s interests revolved around Filet-O-Fish and menthol cigarettes, so we were doomed from the start.

Eager for backup, I turn to Nick, but he’s focused on Tilly, who glares when she notices me. Great. Clearly, Nick isn’t the only Scott family member who plays favorites.

“Go on,” he says gruffly, giving her a gentle tap on her butt.

Tilly continues her intimidation techniques with intense eye contact and doesn’t relent until a smaller child with light brown skin and big curls like Tilly bodychecks her to the floor. With ahuff, Tilly scrambles up, then runs after the diapered kid, both screaming.

When I turn back to Nick’s relatives, they’re still watching me. The intensity of the attention makes me think Mindy might be the only person in the family who likes me so far.

“Hi. I’m Jasmine,” I squeak.

“I’m Nick,” he says, mimicking the nervous, high tone in my voice.

I elbow him before I think better of it, but I find myself shifting closer to him nonetheless. He’s a flotation device in a sea full of sharks and I don’t know yet whether they’re the people-eating kind.

He makes anoofsound in response to my well-placed elbow to his side, and that seems to break their scrutiny.

“Hi, Nico.” A woman with dark, wavy hair like his wraps him in a hug. She turns to me, graceful and warm, looking like she’s stepped straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad in dark, straight leg blue jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater.

The entire family has leaned heavily into the preppy country-club look. Even the kids are in polos and the baby version of chinos; there’s a baby in a cable-knit bear onesie that I know for a fact costs a cool two hundo.

In contrast, Nick is dressed in a well-loved T-shirt that fits perfectly across his shoulders and strains against his biceps, and his fast fashion denim looks soft enough for me to rub my face against. Not that I ever would, of course.

The woman turns to me. “I’m Claire. A sister.”

Without my hostess gifts, I have nothing to protect myself from another inevitable hug, though if Claire is anything like her mother, the gifts wouldn’t have stopped her.

“Welcome to the family, Jasmine,” she whispers into our hug.

I don’t choke on my tongue, but only barely.

“Claire, take it easy,” Nick hisses.

“We’re just excited,” she says teasingly as she pulls back, clutching my upper arms. “He’s so secretive. My parents had to travel to Toronto to meet his last girlfriend.”

Clearly, everyone in Nick’s family is obsessed with his dating life. If I was his real girlfriend, I’d be worried. As his tenuous…friend? I’m still a little concerned. Either Nick has serious commitment issues, or he was born into a family of traditionalist busybodies.

Before I can come up with a response for Claire, we’re ushered further into the home, which smells of newly cut wood, sharp and sweet. Despite his claim that he favors Tilly, Nick takes several babies from their parents’ arms and picks toddlers off the floor as they meander past, planting smacking kisses on their cheeks and sneaking beard tickles into their necks.

In the span of a few minutes, I am hugged by another sister, a sister-in-law, an auntie or two, and offered warm or alcoholic beverages, then warmandalcoholic beverages. Before I can choose from the long list rattled off for me, Nick presses a mug of hot lemon water into my hand.

My heart squeezes with gratitude.

“Good?” he asks, quietly, ducking in close.

“Do I look as overwhelmed as I feel?”

He tips his head, brow furrowing, and studies me. “You look like you did the first time you walked into Moonbar.”

“That good?”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, stretching and rolling his shoulders.

“I can drive a bit on the way home,” I offer, pointing to his shoulders. I hate driving, but I could handle it for a few hours if that’s what he needs. “You look a little sore.”

A girlfriend would massage them for him, but I don’t know whether he’d want me to. Seeming to read my hesitation, hewipes the grimace from his face. “Nah. Just not used to sitting for so long.”

“That’s one good thing about your job. At least it keeps you moving,” says an older man with silver hair and a strong jaw. It’s obvious he’s Nick’s father, because he is Nick, only well aged. If Nick wore slacks and cardigans over Oxford shirts. But his father’s jaw is tight, the lines around his mouth dragging his lips down. Where Nick is teasing, forever young, this man looks like he’s made of plywood.

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